บท 3713: Chapter 2835: Sinister Banquet of Nightmares (Part 7)
It was apparent that the estimation of these patrons by the head chef was not mistaken; they took no interest in fine cuisine. They frequented this restaurant solely because it belonged to the Wayne Hotel, an exclusive domicile for the elite; they saw it merely as a place to socialize and had no respect for the so-called chefs or the food itself.
Someone, with trembling hands, picked up a pen and, scratching their head, wrote down a few words, although they were mostly vague and indifferent. Some remembered a few phrases, began to write furiously, yet without understanding the context, sounding like a rambling travelogue.
Others found themselves utterly incapable of crafting any background story, and so they simply started from the flavor of the food, cautiously sipping the wine, and jotting down their impressions.
Still, others opted to interact with the person beside them, but without a doubt, under the elimination game format, no one was inclined to reveal their answers, keeping their papers tightly concealed; they did not wish to be the one eliminated.
The restaurant was quite spacious, but only half of it was in use, with roughly twenty tables occupied by four people each, bringing the total to nearly 100 people; the plan to eliminate only the last 10 was considered quite merciful, as everyone believed they wouldn't be the one to write the worst.
As time ticked away by the minute, at long last, someone couldn't hold back a meltdown—a man in a suit threw his pen and began to curse loudly.
"What on earth is going on? Why must I stay here? I've had it! I want to leave now!"
He stood up, ready to stride out, but obviously, the spines dangling from the ceiling weren't going to let him off so easily.
The man turned around after pushing back his chair, and just as he took a step towards the exit, he felt a slight itch on his neck, and everyone else's faces registered terror.
The man's spine was drawn out intact.
Connected to something that hung from the ceiling, an entire adult male's spine was extracted, with nerves slowly trailing down, then splitting the vertebral joints and assimilating them into the ceiling.
The man fell to the ground, his eyes open in death.
Screams erupted sporadically across the restaurant, but everyone remained seated, trembling with their mouths agape, faces pale and curled up like quails drenched by rain.
Shiller paid no attention to these oddities; he was earnestly writing his response. Shiller did not feel any natural advantage merely because the idea was his, although it seemed so on the surface.
He left the chef to do what chefs are supposed to do, which is nothing more than crafting delicious dishes and introducing them to the guests, and the chef indeed did just that.
As the one who suggested the activity, Shiller could anticipate it earlier. He listened intently to the chef and committed everything to memory, then wrote it all down on paper, seemingly ensuring his safety.
But it wasn't that simple.
Shiller never considered the chef to be a human just because he seemed communicative and possessed his own likes and dislikes; he definitely wasn't human. He was either a puppet controlled by monsters or possibly the monster itself. Any sanity he exhibited was influenced by madness; it was impossible to predict him based on human logic.
He only said that the 10 worst writers would become ingredients, but he never defined what "worst" meant. Some might assume that a chef's pride means writing less shows one didn't pay attention and didn't respect the chef, which would naturally be deemed inferior.
However, that may not be the case at all. The chef was just a monster, capable of acting illogically as a chef. When necessary, he could concoct a set of seemingly logical rules. When there was no need to pretend to be human, he could discard everything, which is typical of monsters.
If one were to think more malignantly—considering past experiences on the 19th floor, Shiller didn't rule out the possibility—this could all be a trap for Shiller by the monster.
He didn't really take Shiller's suggestion; he pretended to agree, changing the game's rules, only to mock humans yet again. He could have pretended to heed Shiller's advice but found another reason to judge Shiller's writing as poor, even if Shiller had accurately transcribed every single thing he said, without missing a word.
Only the Joker, Batman's nemesis, would stubbornly adhere to a rule. The monsters of the Cthulhu mythos would rather fit both options in a dilemma with timed explosives, letting them detonate at random.
Therefore, Shiller never arrogantly assumed he had the upper hand. It was always an erratic game; one could only exploit the collision of chaos with chaos, not the expectation for monsters to follow any set rules.
Shiller glanced at the paper in front of him, and although the chef might not target him so soon, he had to be cautious. Therefore, he must answer as comprehensively as possible and also leave room for maneuver.
Shiller started scribbling quickly, his handwriting somewhat sloppy and the strokes between letters a bit entangled. But that unintended consequence was precisely the effect he desired.
Jerome seemed to be writing something too. Shiller wasn't concerned that his communication with Jerome might reveal his own intelligence, because if he was from a point in the past, then the future Jerome couldn't directly inform Jerome about himself.
When the 5 minutes were up, the waiters came to collect the slips of paper. The woman sitting on the other side of Shiller looked at his full sheet with a touch of envy and initiated conversation, "You must have listened very carefully, didn't you? Do you happen to remember the next dish..."
"Sorry, ma'am, but it just happened that way," Shiller explained. "I just happened to have an interest in wine, so I listened for a bit and added my own understanding, but I'm afraid I'm helpless with the next few courses."
All the slips of paper had been collected, and the people in the restaurant nervously awaited their verdict, as the head chef who had walked back to the kitchen soon appeared, holding more than ten slips of paper in his hand.
All eyes were focused on him, and he seemed very pleased; when he smiled, the wrinkles around his mouth formed a curve, making the muscles on his entire face appear exceptionally relaxed.
"Very good, friends. Your answers have really surprised me—I mean, surprisingly awful."
The chef's face suddenly darkened, and everyone's hearts skipped a beat; they knew that their lives now hung on the whims of this man. If he was unhappy, the chances of survival for everyone would decrease significantly.
Suddenly, the chef raised his hand, and a woman sitting on the right side of a table at the back of the room stood up uncontrollably, her face full of terror as she reached out to grab a dinner knife.
Sizzle!
A head fell to the ground, the spine was pulled out, and her body was carried away by the waiters next to her, while the kitchen quickly began to emit a fragrant smell.
The crowd grew even more terrified, but seeing the blood-red spines stuck to their necks, no one dared to move.
The chef, on the other hand, calmly took out a slip of paper and began to read. The content was disjointed and even included some stuff about pop singers, sounding like an essay written by an elementary school student.
Without a doubt, this was what the woman had submitted, and when the chef finished reading it, he looked around the room and found some people seemed relieved, while others became more anxious.
The people present were all intelligent. By assessing the quality of the answer the chef had read, they could roughly estimate whether they might be eliminated next. Those who relaxed clearly had written better than the woman, while those who were extremely tense had written something close to hers; they realized they were likely to be eliminated and were thus both fearful and panicked.
But no one was foolish enough to try fleeing, for they knew they couldn't escape. The panicked atmosphere permeated the restaurant, and the chef seemed to thoroughly enjoy it all.
He cast an appreciative glance at Shiller, who, though not at all happy, still nodded perfunctorily.
Then, the chef executed two more people, an old man with a full head of silver hair and a woman made up with heavy makeup, and he read out their answers one after the other.
Both were equally perfunctory. The old man's writing displayed a slight level of education but had nothing to do with the theme, and the woman was basically illiterate; the level of her grammar made one wonder if she really was an American.
This time the chef didn't kill them right away. Instead, he read their answers first, using every word he could muster to denigrate what they had written, watching them go from anger to despair before, inevitably, their spines were pulled out and they fell to the ground, dead, their bodies taken to the kitchen.
Afterward, the chef slowed down his pace. He read the answers one by one, word for word, and sometimes he would switch to another slip of paper after the first sentence, all to prevent the people in the room from realizing too soon whether he was reading theirs.
Everyone was on the verge of collapse under the immense pressure, and two more people, unable to bear the stress, began crying out and tried to flee, only to be killed without a doubt.
And the chef announced even crueller news: these people not chosen were not on the list of ten, meaning no matter how many shouted and ran, he would still eliminate ten people based on the answers submitted.
After the elimination of those with weaker mental fortitude, the mental torture finally came to an end. The chef finished reading the last slip of paper, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and many slumped over on their tables.
But then the chef took out another slip of paper.
Some people began to sob, others looked numb, no longer caring about anything, while some already considered taking their lives with dinner knives.
"Next, I must read out the work of this great literary master, Mr. Naogh Soship, who has written the best among you. I must say, he has shown me the utmost respect. Not only did he jot down my words verbatim, but he also cited his references cogently and analyzed deeply. For this, I am willing to give him an exemption from the next round."
The chef started reading Shiller's written draft with fervor. Shiller's expression remained unchanged, while everyone else turned to look in his direction, because after introducing the work, the chef pointed in his direction.
Among those present, only he seemed old enough to be a PhD, so all gazes fell on him with mixed feelings of resentment, envy, ill-intent, and complexities.
Shiller sat still, exuding a serene composure. When the chef gave him a final look after reading the draft, Shiller was seen crossing himself on the chest.
A hint of contempt flickered in the chef's eyes.
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